The next few days passed in a blur, the sun rising and setting multiple times without meaningfully affecting her duties. Ilya would wake up when Lady Visnavik told her to, and she would sleep when she was both tired and without further tasks.
Strangely enough, Ilya found herself meeting that second condition far more than she thought she would: her Queen slept often and for long periods, leaving Ilya with a lot of free time.
Sometimes the breather was appreciated, like after a long hike through the swamp, but sometimes it was saddening, like in the middle of a job she truly enjoyed.
Ilya’s favourite had very quickly become tasks where she serviced her Lady directly: scratching her where instructed, picking twigs and the like out of her beautiful obsidian scales. It felt like a reward rather than a chore to be permitted to sit so close to her Queen- to be allowed to touch such a magnificent being.
Her Queen never showed it, but Ilya hoped she enjoyed the attention as much as her servant enjoyed giving it.
During one such span of free time, Ilya sat quietly on a patch of dry land near the edge of the clearing, listening to the great dragon snore. When first Ilya heard the sound those days ago, she was terrified- imagining the towering horror that awaited her, but after all the joy serving her Lady had brought, the sound became incredibly comforting. It was a reminder that all this was not a dream: that when she closed her eyes and then opened them again, her Queen would still be there.
She spent a lot of her free time sitting like this and thinking: thinking about her Lady, thinking about her past, and inevitably thinking about what to actually do when the first two options only used a fraction of the time available to her.
The first thing that always came to mind was improving herself in some way. Her Queen often called her useless, and Ilya agreed, as much as the words hurt. She was a starving beggar for most of her existence and still looked the part: frail, weak, and unable. It was fortunate that most of Lady Visnavik’s daily tasks had a low skill requirement, or she might have been at risk of failing the one being in this world she couldn’t afford to fail. The success of the deer hunt had relied wholly on luck and had pushed Ilya’s body to its absolute limits. What would happen when her Queen ordered another sacrifice, something bigger or faster than a deer?
She had to become better in order to serve better, that much was clear, but the specifics eluded her.
Thievery was what she was best at: sneaking around unnoticed in a crowd, picking the one piece of bread people were least likely to notice missing, and then taking it. Unfortunately, there was no one around to steal from in a spooky dark swamp, making that skill set pointless.
Her limited experience as a harlot was also entirely useless; males of her own species barely wanted her, a giant dragon would just laugh in her face. Not that she would know what to do with a dragon if the opportunity arose.
What else was there?
Muscle building? Becoming a warrior type? Her body was just starting to claw its way out of critical malnutrition, the consequences of which would follow her for the rest of her life. Not the foundation for a fighter.
Magic was most likely bunk as well. You either had to be rich enough to taught, smart enough to teach yourself, or lucky enough to have innate aptitude. Ilya was neither of the former two and had no idea if she was the latter. Lady Visnavik would know, but Ilya would never wake her with such an unimportant question. Her Queen would check on her own time and order her servant to train the proficiency if it existed.
She looked at her bony fingers, dirt and mud building up under her nails. Lady Visnavik made interesting gestures with her claws sometimes when she casted, pointing towards dexterity as a requirement. Should she try improving that? It could help with her other tasks even if magic was out of her reach- maybe she could even learn to use a bow for hunting.
A stray memory moored itself to the idea. It was one of the many conversations she had listened to over many years on the street; no one payed the dirty little orphan girl sitting across the street any mind, leaving her free to eavesdrop.
Two men sat at a table in front of some kind of shop, one was younger, one was old. The older one had some kind of small wooden craft in one hand and some kind of sharp implement in the other.
“Do you really have to mess around with that stuff at the table granddad?” The younger man asked, brushing away fragments of wood. “You’re getting shavings everywhere.”
The older man continued carving, and Ilya had watched his movements: smooth and precise despite his age. “‘Course I do, I’m old. Carving trains the fingers and the mind- keeps ‘em both young!”
He had eventually stopped to eat when their meals arrived and Ilya remembered trying to come up with a way to distract them so she could take the food. In the end nothing came of it and she went to sleep hungry.
Carving then. There was certainly plenty of wood for her to practice on. But what to use as the sharp bit? Again, the sword was off limits- she would have to look around.
Stepping out of her dry corner and into the muck, Ilya’s shoulder-blade warmed, bringing small smile to her lips.
Her Lady had gifted her body with another inscription, one that protected her from all manner of sickness and disease. The etching process had been just as agonizing as the first time, but Ilya endured, content in the knowledge her Queen only hurt her for her own good.
Not only did the new addition keep her from falling ill and becoming a burden, but it removed the many illnesses she was apparently riddled with. With it’s magic now eternally carved into her flesh, Ilya felt stronger and healthier than ever before.
She should have expected it by now. Every time she thought her life couldn’t get any better, her Lady made it happen.
The warm runes were a comforting companion as she trudged through the cold and dark waters, exiting the clearing quietly. The path through the brush led her back towards the swamp’s sloping entrance, where she stopped, turning towards the neatly organized piles of remains nearby.
Ilya regarded the bones with a thoughtful tilt of the head. Some street rats in her neighbourhood carried bone shivs around, usually used to mug others for their food or protect themselves from being mugged. They were ugly things, basically just an animal bone snapped in half and then sharpened to a point, but their wielders swore by their effectiveness.
If it was good enough for flesh, maybe it would be good enough for wood.
The long bone pile was physically the largest, as 10 victims produced 80 limb bones at the very minimum, and there had been far more than that over the hundreds of years this swamp had belonged to her Lady. Kneeling before the pile, Ilya picked up a moderately sized bone about half as long as her arm. A quick rap of her knuckles against it returned a hollow sound; Ilya had no idea if that was normal.
The thought of it being human suddenly arose, and she darted her eyes to the right- to the pile of skulls sitting beside her. So many of them were of her own kind.
In the dark corners of society, the dead were a common sight: stabbing, beating, starving, coughing- there were just so many ways to die. Dragons were not on most people’s lists, and these souls would not have expected the painful end fate had written for them. Was it right for her to harm them further? Did they not deserve rest?
She looked down at the piece of another person in her hands for a silent second before shaking the traitorous thoughts out of her head. It didn’t matter if they were dead or alive, if using them would solidify her usefulness to her Lady, she had to do it. Lady Visnavik was all she had- the only good thing that had ever happened to her.
Grip tight and expression resolute, she stood back up.
The first step was to break her find in half, and luckily enough, Ilya had recently acquired some experience in breaking bone.
Locating a rock was easy, but finding a solid surface to strike against was a bit more difficult. Most of the ground nearby was either soft mud or beneath a foot of water, limiting her options lest she wanted most of her efforts to be absorbed.
She eventually decided on a large root at the base of a true ashwood tree, age making the bark hard as stone. The arch of the root’s surface focused the force of her blows on a small area, and it only took a few swings until a large diagonal crack split the tibia in two.
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When the second step arrived, Ilya was hit with a realization: she hadn’t the foggiest idea how to sharpen anything, let alone a bone. No memories emerged to help her- she was left floundering.
“Slave.”
A sharp voice suddenly echoed through the swamp, startling Ilya from her brainstorming. Her Lady was calling to her, the side project would have to wait.
“Yes my Queen!” She called, shoving the bone fragment in her pocket and rising. “I’ll be right there!” Ilya rushed in the voice’s direction, almost tripping on a submerged root once or twice.
“Why are you not already here?” The great dragon questioned, her superior senses hearing the girl’s cries clearly despite the distance. “What could you possibly be doing?”
Ilya entered the clearing and slid to her knees in front of her Queen, bowing her head. “ I was…” she panted, catching her breath. “I was working on becoming a better servant for you, my Queen. ”
This seemed to give Lady Visnavik pause- Ilya imagined a look of mild surprise. “…I see.” The emotion in the words were difficult to parse, but she hoped her Lady was pleased. “You may continue at a later date; I have a job for you.”
Her ears perked up. The last few times her Lady announced a task like this, it was one she was unsure her slave could complete- one where success earned genuine praise. Ilya hoped the trend continued- she truly, desperately, did.
“I want you to go to the nearby town and steal valuables for my hoard.” The dragon raked a clawed hand through the pile of treasure next to her, the resulting sound of colliding coins tickling Ilya’s eardrums. “A street rat such as yourself should be competent in thievery, yes?”
Ilya nodded. “Yes, my Queen.” It was currently the only thing she was competent at, but the words died in her throat. The thought of telling her Lady such a shameful thing was too much to bear.
“Good.” The dragon hummed. “You may raise your head.” Lady Visnavik’s eyes met hers when she looked up, greener than all of the life surrounding them combined.
Her Lady’s face was probably quite frightening to most people- her harsh bony brow trapping her expression somewhere between boredom, rage, and displeasure, but after many hours of silent observation, Ilya had noticed a few intricacies. The ridge would rise slightly when she was surprised, it would sink deeper if she was grumpy, her eyes would squint if she was suspicious, and in moments like this, when she was thinking, her jaw would set in a very particular way. Rather than frightening, Ilya had come to find her Queen’s face quite endearing.
“Prioritize precious metals over all else.” Her Lady clarified, pulling the servant girl out of her fawning and back to the task at hand. “Currency is a personal favourite, but I have come to appreciate weapons and armour over the last hundred years as well.” Her index claw rose from the pile to gently trace a sword’s sharp edge. “Those are my only specifications, I do not care how they are met or in what quantity.”
“Now go. Take a berry or two with you.”
The journey between swamp and town was a long one: endless hours spent walking through vast wooded wilderness. The last time she had made the long march, she had no supplies and only a piece of stale bread in her stomach- it was truly hellish. Perhaps this time, with all the gifts of her Lady, things would be better.
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As it turned out, not being starved or diseased did wonders for one’s physical fitness. It was still an incredible distance to walk, but breaks were taken when necessary, food was eaten when she grew hungry, and aside from her feet eventually hurting, the trek was downright pleasant as a consequence.
She made it out of the swamp in record time, taking a short break to update her fellow survivor, the uprooted tree, on how her life was going. From there, a combination of jogging and hiking had her at the edge of the forest in less than half a day, the afternoon sun greeting her with blinding brightness.
When the white blur reconstituted into actual shapes, the town of Bearwood was in sight; even from a distance, Ilya could see the old mill and the sprawling lumberyard surrounding it.
Walking closer to the town, she could make out individual people and faces. Workers lifted logs from big wheeled wagons and sorted them into piles based on something a man with a book and quill said. Humans carried the smaller logs in groups, while their orc counterparts paired off to carry the full trees.
Orcs were a common sight in Bearwood, especially in the western districts where their immense strength landed them jobs as lumberers or hunters. Ilya had been 13 when she learned that they were an entirely different people as opposed to just big humans with bigger teeth.
No one, human or orc, lifted their heads from their work as she passed by- they never did.
That was fine: she also had a job to do.
Ilya had stolen many things over the years, but almost all of it was food. Food was the most valuable thing in the world to a street rat, and any time the market was open was an opportunity to not go hungry.
Food was easy enough to steal as long as you got there first: it was always placed right at the front of the stall, surrounded by plenty of buyers to hide behind, and since there was so much of it, people wouldn’t notice one or two pieces missing. Money was harder and usually not worth the risk; people were far more likely to be vengeful about their money being stolen than a single apple or bread loaf.
Once, a boy had pickpocketed a merchant Ilya was just about to also steal from. He was young and sloppy and had gotten caught, resulting in a beating so severe that he was killed right there in the middle of the market, sobbing apologies unto the end.
The experience spooked Ilya so bad that she gave up thievery for a while, leading to her stint as a night lady. Even when days without a customer forced her to return to crime, the memory remained, limiting her to the almost impossible storefronts and cafes of the east districts.
The market square looked unchanged from that day, but the bloodstain had been washed away since, leaving no trace of that boy ever existing. ‘Life always moves on.’ Ilya thought to herself. She would have to move on as well; her Queen wanted valuables, and this was the only way she knew how to get them.
Ilya quickly located a place where she could sit, somewhere inconspicuous enough to not draw attention and with good enough sight lines to see everything she needed to. She would have to canvass the place for a while to pick out the right target, one that was both successful enough to have silver or gold coins with them, and distracted enough to not notice their purse missing until she was already gone.
An hour of watching eventually narrowed it down to a middle aged human man selling rugs and animal furs at the north end of the square. He had numerous customers or perusers always holding his attention, and even came out from behind the stall a few times to help them decide between two pieces.
That would be her chance.
Mixing with the crowd got her across the square, where she pretended to watch a peddler’s performance for a few minutes until the opportunity arose to duck behind a pile of crates.
As soon as she was out of direct line of sight it usually became simple to sneak right up and steal what she needed, but Ilya wanted to be extra careful this time. Moving from hiding spot to hiding spot, she ended up crouched behind a rack of pelts beside the target stall.
The man was less than a metre away from her, chatting to an orc mother about the best choice of fur for the newborn in her arms. Ilya could see no coin purse on his belt from this angle, increasing the odds that it was behind the counter.
So she waited, heart rate rising, glaring unblinkingly at the back of the man’s head and mouthing the same word over and over. ‘Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave.’
He finally did, walking around front with a few squares of sample fur. Ilya watched him go, checking the new angles of his person for any sign of a wallet- again nothing, it had to be in the stall.
Her eyelids fell closed, taking one long calming breath. ‘Two… three… four… out.’ Grey eyes snapped open, blazing with determination.
With a burst of speed she hopped out from behind the rack, quickly crawling the rest of the way to the stall. Her heart was pounding as her eyes bounced back and forth from shelf to shelf, searching for her prize. There was so much garbage and worthless junk in the way: samples, cutoffs, quills, rolls of meaningless paper with words she couldn’t read.
“Excellent choice! Let me fold it for you and then get you your change.”
Her nerves spiked as time seemed to slow, a cold sweat of panic forming on her neck. She had seconds.
Finally- mercifully, she saw it, a fist sized bag in the corner of the top shelf. Snatching it with all the speed of a swiping mantis, Ilya rolled out of the stall just in time for the merchant to step in behind her. Sneaking around the corner of the adjacent building, she pressed her back against the cool brickwork, holding her breath so her panicked gasping wouldn’t give her away.
There was no way he hadn’t seen her, she couldn’t stay here- she had to run.
Swallowing what felt like sand in her dry throat, Ilya broke out into a sprint, careening down alleyways and streets, making every possible turn and even doubling back through the same turn to run in another direction.
At last, when her body could run no more, Ilya collapsed to her knees in a familiar puddle, next to a familiar hovel. Her blind flight had led her back to the same place it always did.
The place where she starved and shivered on the bad days, where she smiled and ate her fill on the good days, where she hid away from a world that seemed to hate her on the worst days. It was a place where she could close her eyes and dream- of the better tomorrow that would surely come if only she survived today.
The indent in the wall was once her home, and even though it was now supplanted by a dry corner of a plagued swamp, the feelings of warmth and safety helped calm her heaving breaths. She was okay now, no one had ever caught her after a double back turn before; she had succeeded and escaped with her prize.
Picking up the wallet and loosening the string around the mouth, she dumped her spoils into a shaky palm. The sum was paltry in comparison to her Lady’s grand hoard, but It was by far the most money Ilya had ever held. The precious metal filled most of her hand, dozens of gold and silver coins shimmering in the low light of the alley. The cold weight was undeniable proof of her competence as a thief, and more, her worth to Lady Visnavik.
But it wasn’t enough. She needed more- her Queen deserved far more.
She stood up. She had to find a bigger target- break into a house, rob the nobility, the clergy.
Ilya’s manic enthusiasm dampened slightly when she realized she had idea how to do anything like that. She was a street thief, overspecialized for street targets.
No- that wouldn’t stop her- it couldn’t stop her, she just needed to learn. Other thieves would know- she would find them and they would help her.
As fate would have it she would not have to look far, for at that moment the glint of metal caught her eye. A roguish young woman walked past the mouth of the alleyway, sunlight reflecting off of her sheathed twin daggers. Numerous belts were strapped to her clothes, holding tools, pouches, likely other hidden weapons.
Ilya’s smile grew wide- too wide, this was most definitely a thief.
She followed as closely as she could but the girl walked fast, almost too fast for a tired slave to keep up. Ilya constantly lost and regained sight of her in the crowds of the east district, and only thanks to the aggressive bounce and wave of a brown ponytail was she able to know which turns to take.
She eventually caught up to the thief outside an ornate building, large windows allowing her to easily view the people drinking and chatting within. An orc man at the door of the establishment stopped the thief, holding out a hand palm up, to which she responded by taking out a card of some kind. A brief read of the card and a nod from the bouncer got her through the door.
Approaching the bouncer, Ilya received different treatment, no blocking her path and no hand for her to place a card into. Was the card only only for thieves? Maybe they needed to trust you not to steal from them first, in which case it was a promise Ilya could never keep.
Entering the building Ilya was met with a sea of tables, some seating four, some seating two, and near the back, a table seating one- her new teacher.
“Excuse me.” Ilya began, leaning forward with her hands behind her back.
The woman visibly jumped. “W-Wha? Where the fuck did you come from?” Her tone was immediately combative- a bad sign for negotiations.
“I came from outside.” Ilya answered, flashing the brightest smile she was capable of. “Are you a thief?
The answer seemed to baffle her teacher, red eyes growing wide and brow dropping as the following question registered. “Am I a…”
“No!” The thief cried, suddenly shouting- she seemed upset. “How did you even get in here? You look like a dirty street kid!”
“Oh, I am one of those.” Ilya agreed with a tilt of her head. “But no one stopped me, so I thought it was okay.” Was she supposed to have a thief card then? Ilya supposed she technically counted as one.
“No one stopped… get the fuck out of here!” A knife was suddenly in her face- negotiations had failed.